Interlude
by aervien
Summary: Draco x Hermione, semi-dark; 'She closed her eyes and leaned into him. “Why,” she asked in a broken whisper, “can this ugly world not bear the existence of anything remotely beautiful?”'


_October 2, 2008 01:21 EST_

This is the first thing I've written in… well, quite a bit. Almost a year? Yeah. Long time. Getting rusty. Don't think this is too bad. All spells taken from HP Lexicon (www . hp – lexicon . org) - didn't make them up. Useful place. Alright, go on. Keep reading.

* * *

It wasn't nice. It wasn't nice or calm or sweet or anything like that. It was rough, savage, and exactly what they both needed.

"Ron's dead," she'd gasped out after appearing suddenly at his door. Then the shaking hands had grabbed his collar and the desperate mouth had found his, and somehow they were inside his flat, his back pressed up against the wall why she kissed him with fervor. It took a bit, but he snapped out of his shock, responding with the ferocity he knew she wanted. She didn't want him to be gentle, not now. If she wanted gentle, she'd gone to Potter. But no, she'd come to him, Draco bloody Malfoy, because she wanted _escape_.

It was comfort sex. Carnal lust. That was all.

It wasn't like she was gone the next morning or anything like that. She was still in his arms when he awoke, staring up at the ceiling. She'd never told him anything beyond those first two words, not that he really wanted to know. Still, he understood, in some distant way, the impact of the death on her. That was number three now? Who were the other two? Oh, right, the Weasley mother, and werewolf, was it? And now Ron. Third major death in the past three months. Not that that was surprising.

Draco sometimes wondered why Granger kept showing up at his doorstep. The Dark Mark on his arm burned during times like these, even without being activated. It wasn't like she didn't know – she'd seen him naked plenty of times not to have seen it – but she kept fucking coming. Like she didn't know where else to go.

He wondered if Potter knew she was coming here. If Potter wondered where his bloody girlfriend was those nights she didn't go back to him. Draco wondered if Potter had any idea that Granger was having sex with one of the most wanted Death Eaters still alive.

Probably not.

These musings though, were to be saved for the hours after she'd left his latest hiding spot. He still didn't know how she'd found his first one, but he always left a note for her now in case she came looking again. Which was inevitable. She always did. Some death, some tumultuous event and she'd be back. He knew it. Sometimes, they'd even see each other across the battlefield, trying to kill each other. And later that night or day or whatever, she'd appear and they'd drown in each other's rough passion.

There was some kind of mutual trust – that she would not give away his hiding spot, and that he would not ambush her. The two were arguably two of the most important participants in the war – loss of either would mean of a major setback for their respective sides. There was a question of who would betray the other first, but for now, there was trust, borne of need, and helplessness.

What a wonderful interlude before the next day's grim agenda.

Once, she'd been so enraged with the toll of the day's battle – two hundred fifty-seven dead, six hundred ninety-five wounded, mostly civilians – that she'd whipped out her wand in the middle of him ripping her blouse off and started screaming at him. He hadn't responded much though, beyond finishing ripping aforementioned shirt off and lowering his mouth to her breast as her screams sank into sobs, and the wand fell out of her hand. He'd carried the marks from that night for a good two months.

Sometimes, they'd actually talk after the sex, and she'd idly ponder what-ifs. What if there had been no war? What if Harry and her weren't so (supposedly – he wanted to argue that it couldn't possibly be true due to the fact that she'd just been screaming _Draco's_ name just ten minutes ago) in love? What if Ron hadn't died? What if Tom Riddle hadn't been an orphan? What if Lucius Malfoy hadn't been a bastard? What if, what if, what if. He never really answered any of them.

One of her more popular fantasies was what would happen were either of them to switch sides.

"Say, one day," she'd say, propped up with her elbows on the pillows next to him, his hand gently following the curves of her body, "I get disillusioned with this bloody war, and I decide Voldemort has the right of it. Say I tell you, 'Draco, I want to be a Death Eater.'"

"You'd be killed," he'd reply simply. "You're a Mudblood. He'd keep you alive for the duration of the war then shoot you with a dozen killing curses the moment your precious Potter was dead. Either that of he'd keep you as his own personal slave or something equally perverse."

And she'd give him that _look_, that said that she'd known that (of course she did, she was Hermione Granger) but she wanted to wonder. He'd just given her reality – she didn't _want_ reality. So when she gave him that look, he'd smirk and lie through his teeth, telling her that she'd be a welcome addition and probably be quite useful and end up winning the war for Voldemort – considering she'd probably be the only Death Eater able to kill Harry Potter during sex. And she'd give him a crooked smile, one that said thank you for the lying, and kiss me now.

"Say, one day," she'd say, lying in his arms, legs entangled, "I convince you to come to the Order, and you pull a Snape and become a spy."

And then he'd give _her_ a look, and she wouldn't bring it up again. Because while he was perfectly willing to play along with whatever sick and morbid fantasy she wove for herself, he wouldn't not allow her to view him as anything beyond what he was. And at that point, she'd roll atop him and they'd start again and forget all that was just said.

The sex was always good. Fucking amazing, really. Even she admitted that the chemistry between them surpassed passion between her and her (supposedly) beloved Harry thrice over. It was the kind of sex you bragged to your friends about over a bottle of beer, the kind of sex you smirked and looking supremely smug about when anyone asked.

But of course, no one asked, because he was her secret, and she was his weakness.

-

But two can keep a secret only if one is dead.

Neither of them said a word, but word got out somehow. It had been eleven months since the first time they'd fucked when the newspapers were suddenly bursting with headlines. '_Traitors Unveiled_' '_Potter's Girlfriend Having Affair with Reknown Death Eater_' '_Granger and Malfoy: Enemies or Lovers?_' The radio stations were all spewing gossip about it, the entire press was having a field day. Eleven months and thirteen days.

When she appeared at his place, crying soundlessly, he'd already had two small trunks packed and his entire fortune into a Bottomless Bag. All three were shrunk and placed in the pocket of his – what did she call them? – jeans. They were both in Muggle clothing and she did not protest when he pulled out two flasks of Polyjuice Potion. He had modified it, he told her, so that it would last longer, but not by much, so they'd have to be very careful. They would be masquerading as an elderly couple, going to Madrid for whatever reason.

Neither of them missed the way the Muggle airport was teeming with extra security guards, several of them who seemed rather uncomfortable and kept reaching into their pocket as if searching for a wand. It was to be expected – the Muggle world had been severely affected by the uproar of magical battles and the sudden increase of Death Eater activity, compounded with the fact that Hermione Granger, closest confidante of Harry Potter, had suddenly disappeared after being accused of having an affair with notorious Death Eater, Draco Malfoy, certainly called for extreme security.

Still, the two slipped through with some maneuvering and were soon on their way to Spain. Getting off the airplane was almost as difficult as getting off, but they managed it, deciding to have Hermione wait in a bathroom stall as Draco, still disguised as an old man, slipped out, got into a taxi and made it to a shabby looking but decent hotel on the outskirts of Madrid. Once he'd gotten a room under the name Gerald Smith, he Apparated back to Hermione, and then Apparated both of them out of the bathroom stall and in the room.

That night, he held her as her cried, both of them naked, but neither of them doing anything. A quick _Incendio_ had burned their old clothes, in case they were somehow tracked through them. The two trunks sitting on the table next to the bed were both of the kind Moody had once used, with seven locks, and a giant room in the last level. They contained completely new clothes, a massive amount of gold, and other necessities. Books, paper, quills, pens, pencils - even two _owls_. Food charmed to not spoil, drinks of every kind, even candy. Potions materials, magical objects, _two_ Invisibility Cloaks, various materials to disguise themselves, multiple hair samples with corresponding pictures so they could Polyjuice themselves into whomever they wanted. Hermione's eyes were wide when Draco informed her of all of this.

"You knew this would happen," she said. It wasn't an accusation; it was a statement of fact. He nodded.

"Yes," he told her, "I knew." He didn't tell her anything beyond that, didn't tell her that he'd made inquiries as to obtaining the trunks that first night she'd appeared before him, didn't tell her that this all had been accumulated over the eleven months and thirteen days they had hid themselves from a world gone mad with bloodlust. But she understood anyways.

She closed her eyes and leaned into him. "Why," she asked in a broken whisper, "can this ugly world not bear the existence of anything remotely beautiful?"

Draco didn't respond to that, only tightening his arms around her as she drifted off into an exhausted sleep. He wouldn't, he decided, call the two of them beautiful. Sure, they were a symbol of the peace possible between the Dark and Light, but in the end, they were both traitors to their causes. She had cheated on and then abandoned Harry, her best friend if not her true love, and he had betrayed everything he had been raised to be. Their relationship was built around a series of nights in which they fucked the hell out of each other to forget all that they were going through. There was nothing beautiful about their relationship, he decided, only something deep and instinctive, something that went beyond words and alliances.

"We're not beautiful," he told her the next day, as they were preparing to flee again, then time to some port in Portugal, where they would then take a boat to Africa, and travel discretely to Cairo, Egypt. From there, they would keep going, maybe east, towards China, or take a plane west, to the United States.

Her level gaze told him she knew that, and accepted it.

But they both knew that beautiful or not, there was something now between them that made one essential to the other's survival, in every sense of the word.

So if they weren't beautiful, maybe that was.

-

The journey itself wasn't too bad, but the clash of personalities soon became apparent. Both were proud people, and the added hardship of being wanted did not help tensions. But they got used to each other's quirks, forgave each other's faults, learned to live.

It took weeks, but they made it to Cairo. No matter – it wasn't like time held much meaning for them now. They traveled by cart, by mule, by boat, by feet, by train – by anything they could, going from village to village, town to town in the Africa expanse. They did not try to hear anything of the wizarding world while moving through Algeria, Nigeria, but occasionally, they would hear news from Muggles about terrorist attacks, and knew that Voldemort was still out there.

Cairo wasn't very special. Just hot. A bit desolate really. However, it was there that the two managed to get into the Egyption version of Diagon Alley, and discretely stock up on magical supplies, such as potions materials. They both indulged, Hermione getting a few books, Draco getting a broomstick. They walked in, and they walked out, confident under their Polyjuice disguise, and indeed, they went unhindered. They smiled, they laughed, they ate ice cream and drank butterbeer.

And when they retired to their room, they had slow sex for the first time, gentle and loving, candles and all.

-

"Hermione!" Draco called out as he shut the front door to their house. The call dissolved into laughter as he bent to receive the warm welcome of his five-year-old daughter. Andreiya Malfoy grinned up at her father, her gaze expressing complete love and devotion like only a child, still pure and untainted by the world's evils can give. "And how," Draco smiled down at his beloved girl in his arms, "was my princess' first day of school?"

Andreiya started gushing about the other girls and boys, and how apparently girls and boys were _not allowed _to interact and that she had been told that boys had _cooties_ which were apparently some kind of strange disease but _she_ was smart and knew it wasn't true because _Aleczander_ didn't have cooties so _obviously_ they were wrong and the other girls were so _strange_ they _giggled_ too much and _hated_ getting dirty and _refused_ to play soccer with the boys during recess although Zander had _made sure_ that the boys allowed his '_Dreiya_ to play with them and _what_ in the world were cooties anyways 'cause they _couldn't _be that bad if –

"So," Draco hurriedly interrupted, "sounds like you had a lot of fun, huh, princess?" Andreiya stopped talking and grinned, nodding happily. At that point, Aleczander, her twin brother, rushed into the room and near threw himself at Draco's leg, squealing with laughter as one Hermione Malfoy finally made an appearance. Draco stepped forward, kissing his wife and therefore saving his son from a scolding which probably would've had something to do with the dirt and mud all over the boy's clothes. Still, Hermione scowled at her son, and gave him a stern look.

"A bath, mister, if you please," she said wryly. Aleczander pouted for a moment, but when Draco set Andreiya down beside him, they looked at each other and promptly shouted "BUBBLE FIGHT" and raced up the stairs.

Draco smiled at his wife, pulling her into his arms before kissing her again, this time much fiercer. Hermione chuckled.

"Sorry, love," she grinned impishly, "I've got pasta cooking in the kitchen. Go check on Andreiya and Aleczander and take a shower yourself. Dinner'll be ready in about twenty minutes, alright?"

"Your wish is my command. You know we're beautiful, right?" he murmured in a rare display of romance, getting a smile out of her, before heading up the stair as well, yelling that the two ruffians had better not be making a mess in the bathroom.

The next day, Draco came home once more. Andreiya and Aleczander attacked him again, telling him excitedly about their second day of school before racing up to take a bath before dinner, and Hermione greeted him with a smile and a kiss.

And in the United States, across the ocean from a war they had abandoned six year prior, Draco and Hermione lived on.

-

Magic was much rarer in the States, for whatever reason. The twins would be home trained once they were of age. They lived blissfully, believing they had found their paradise, except for those nights during which Draco would clutch his arm in agony as the Dark Mark seared into his skin, and Hermione would watch with helpless eyes reliving memories of a time long past. And for this reason, they kept their ears open, listening, always listening, wondering what was happening in the world they'd left far behind.

The European wizarding world was in shambles. The war had spread from England to France and as far as Austria. Russia had gotten involved, but China and Japan were staying stubbornly neutral. There were few large battles now, only far too many skirmishes everywhere you went. The Death Eaters were growing in number, fed from the people continuously being disillusioned from the war that seemed to have no end. It was not a clash now, not a fight between Dark and Light. It had turned into a kind of contest from survival, and no one knew who would win. Voldemort and Harry had fought multiple times in the past six years, but nothing had come of any of those battles. No one knew who to trust anymore – the war had degenerated into a brawl for life, and every man was on his own.

Draco and Hermione were not completely detached. Hermione still looked for any news about Harry whenever possible, or the Weasleys, or Dumbledore, or the rest of the Order. Draco kept track of who had died and who was left. So many of their class had been killed, so many people they knew murdered. It was horrific, but the two of them remained calm, focusing on their life now with the twins. A much more monotonous life, but neither minded. It was peaceful. That was enough.

It was on one of those peaceful days, that an exhausted owl, nearing death, literally fell through one of the second-story windows, and sent Andreiya screaming and Aleczander into shock. Hermione and Draco burst into the room and froze for a moment as their minds processed what it was and what it meant, before Hermione went to console the now crying Andreiya and the whimpering Aleczander, her own hands trembling, and Draco carefully took the owl and the scroll tied to its leg and took it downstairs, to the living room, and set it down on the coffee table. Muttering a password, he pressed his finger against the flowers in the painting of his and Hermione's wedding day. The portrait gave a _click_ sound, and Draco slid it aside and took out two wands.

Although both Draco and Hermione had long since decided to forgo common usage of magic, this was a decided uncommon situation. He gave a flick, nearly smiling when the owl, unconscious before, gave a feeble hoot, its feathers all back in place and most of its cuts gone. One of its wings seemed to be broken, and Draco's "_ferula_" generated a wooden stick with which he made a splint for the owl. The owl gave another feeble hoot of thanks as Draco set before it water and some raw chicken Hermione had laid out for dinner.

By that time, Hermione had come down from attending to the twins, and gave him a grim look as she joined him. He held the scroll up, signaling that he had yet to read it as atop the scroll read clearly the words '_Hermione_'.

"It's for me," she stated, voice only a little shaky.

Draco nodded mutely.

"Well," she said, voice stronger, "give it here then." She stretched her hand out imperiously and had Draco been anyone else, he wouldn't have noticed the slightly trembling. But it was Draco, so he noticed, but he said nothing. Hermione took the scroll, unrolling it and taking in the words on the parchment. Draco watched her closely, realizing full well that this could mean the end of everything they had built here in the States.

"What is it?" he asked, voice harsh in a way it hadn't been in years. "Tell me, Hermione. What is it?"

Hermione said nothing.

"Show me," he murmured, and she quietly placed the parchment in his hand. His eyes flicked over it, then went back to her.

_Hermione. He's dead. I killed him. Mission accomplished. Come back. Harry_

Draco stared at his wife, then lunged for the TV remote. Furiously, he punched it on, going to the news station. Sure enough, there was a report on CNN about the currently state of affairs in Europe.

"The terrorist group that has been harassing Europe for almost a decade have finally been defeated," the news reporter said with a fake smile. "Their leader, a Lord Voldemort, was reportedly killed by a young man, Harry Potter." Pictures of both appeared on screen. "However –"

Draco turned the TV off. His hand automatically rose, covering where he knew the Dark Mark was, should be, clutching at it.

-

Hermione didn't go back.

Maybe she should have. Europe was slowly building itself back up again, and she, of course, would've been at the forefront, running every little project and fulfilling what would have been her destiny. But all she had to do was look at where she was now, a happy wife with two darling children and a husband to die for, and know that she did not want to go back. She wanted to stay here, in the US, in their two-story house, with her children, and with him.

So Hermione didn't go back.

And they kept living.

-

His eyes snapped open. A silver-metal gaze penetrated the darkness as his arm confirmed that his wife was still indeed beside him and sound asleep. There was nothing out of place, nothing to be paranoid about, nothing wrong except that fact that _his bloody Dark Mark was burning like hell_.

Draco closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then sat up. It was the middle of August, and the twins were visiting Hermione's parents for the week, giving him and Hermione some much needed breathing space. Draco slipped out from under the thin covers. His chest was bare but he had pajama pants on, so he just grunted and walked into the bathroom. Water splashed his face, and he shook his head vigorously, but sleep was not anywhere close by, so he walked out of the bedroom and went downstairs, intent on grabbing a beer and preventing himself from wondering why the _fuck_ his Dark Mark was active again even though he knew that Voldemort was fucking _dead_.

He frowned to himself as he looked out the sliding glass door in the kitchen. The moon was full that night.

Come to think of it, he thought absently, this wasn't the first unsettling thing to happen in the recent days. There had been an increase in roadkill in the area they lived in, and for some reason, their neighbors, generally very friendly, had all seemed to have vanished. Seeing as the road they lived on was relatively out of the way, the lack of any other activity, animal or human, was unnerving. Draco could also swear he'd sensed the drifts of magic in the air, but it had been so long that he couldn't be sure.

"Draco?" Hermione's voice called down the stairs to him. "Are you there? Come back to sleep, love."

A few second went by before he answered, "Yeah, I'll be right up."

Draco stared hard at the full moon before sneering and tossing the still full bottle of beer into the trash.

-

They never saw it coming.

Perhaps they should have, but they didn't. Six years of hiding from the war, then another five years after the war ended, and they were still living peacefully, unbothered and happy. Too happy.

Andreiya and Aleczander had long since begun displaying magical tendencies, but Draco and Hermione clamped down on them, teaching them to control themselves the moment anything happened. Their magic was to be a secret, and even the two children understood the grim importance of it. By ten, their control was flawless, if not their actually usage in the magic. However, Draco and Hermione were determined not to deprive the two of a normal childhood, and ended up sending them off to some sort of private middle school, bringing them home every weekend.

The two adults enjoyed the life they lived. Everything was perfect.

They never saw it coming, but they should have. Nothing is perfect, after all.

-

"Hermione!" Draco called out as he shut the front door to their house. He was grinning – he'd gotten a raise. Practically humming to himself as hung his coat up and slipped his shoes off, he called out again, "Hermione!" Still, no one responded, but Draco was not worried. Hermione would often be too caught up in some book, or be taking a nap, or something or the other that would prevent her from hearing him. All it meant, he chuckled, was that he'd have to play a short game of Hide-and-Go-Seek, which, surprisingly enough, he'd gained quite a fondness for in his years as a father.

Still chuckling, Draco walked into the kitchen. Immediately, the smile was wiped off his face as he took in the visage of the man standing before him, with Hermione unconscious as his feet. His mouth went dry, and when he went to lick his lips he found it wasn't possible. He knew he was shaking, but he could not muster the self-control to stop it.

It was then that his old Dark Mark flared once more with pain.

Draco began to back up very slowly. The picture of their wands behind it were right next to the door he was now passing through, he only had to stretch out his arm and –

"That, is a very, very bad idea, Malfoy," Harry Potter mocked.

Hermione was vaguely aware there was fighting. She knew, somehow, that Harry-who-was-not-her-Harry had pushed Draco back into the living room and was now causing those horrible screams to rip out of her husband's throat. Hermione was also vaguely aware there she was bleeding somewhere on the back of her head, because her hair was matted and she could see the red stain on it. It didn't matter. Thank god Andreiya and Aleczander were at school.

She stood, using the chairs and the kitchen table to help her. Somehow, she limped towards the living room door. Luckily, _his_ back was turned towards her, and although Draco was facing her, she had no doubt he was in far too much pain to notice. She whispered the password, the breath hidden under a wail, and the painting slid aside. One wand slipped into her hand, and the other she prepared to throw.

"_Petrificus totalus!_" she shouted. It did not hit her mark, missing by just a bit, but it did distract him more than long enough for her to toss Draco his wand.

Harry-who-was-not-her-Harry snarled in rage before pointing his wand at her, "_Incendio!_" Hermione screamed as she leaped out of the way of the flames as Draco shouted "_Aguamenti!_" to counter the fire. "_Serpensortia!_" Draco hissed, and immediately, a large green snake shot out from his wand and began making its way towards Harry-who-was-not-her-Harry. "_Confundo!_" Hermione shot at him, desperate, but he merely blocked it with a simple "_Protego!"_ before aiming a harsh "_Confrigo!_" at the summoned serpent, making the poor creature explode into bits.

A mocking smirk played on _his_ lips, and Draco's eyes narrowed in disgust. "_Defodio!_" Harry Potter, laughed, his "_Protego!_" saving him once more.

"What the fuck is your _problem_, Potter?!" Draco snapped. "What the _bloody hell_ do you think you're _doing_?!"

Harry sneered, "I'm not _Potter_, moron."

"_Expulso!_"

"_Protego!_"

The poor coffee table. Just then, Hermione finally got a good look at his eyes, and discovered, to her shock, that while one was the pure green she used to love, the other was empty with a look she knew all to well.

"Voldemort," she whispered. "You… you didn't kill him. You took him in. You took him into your own body!"

"Correct, Hermione, darling," Harry-Voldemort drawled. "You see I was beating Voldemort here, 'cept then he offered me a proposal. Can you guess what that proposal was, Hermione? _Sectumsempra!_" The spell had been aimed at Draco, who immediately flung up his own "_Protego!_"

Draco hissed in annoyance. He understood. He already bloody damn well _understood_. "You wanted _her_," he spat out. "You fucking wanted _her_ so you doomed the fucking world! Bloody hell, Potter, I didn't think you were _that_ daft! _Expelliarmus!_" He missed.

Harry-Voldemort snorted in derision. "Shut up, Malfoy. The world or Hermione. You choose."

Draco didn't say anything.

"_Immobulus!_" Hermione hissed. Harry-Voldemort froze, although it was clear he – they? – wanted to scream and rant at her. "That," she snapped, "is quite enough. We're done with this."

"Good," Harry-Voldemort said, "glad to see we're on the same page." He laughed in their faces as they spun towards his voice. "A simple duplication spell. Can't duplicate my personality or anything, but I can duplicate the image." His face turned suddenly cold. "But enough. We _are_ done with this."

Hermione gave Draco a look, and in the split second they had, a mutual understanding was reached. One of them would die, and Harry-Voldemort would die. But if one died, than the other could not survive without. That was fact. "You're beautiful," they mouthed to each other.

Harry-Voldemort took a step forward. Four voices rang out.

-

No one knew what happened. Only that Andreiya and Aleczander had somehow managed to use some kind of Apparation to go home, and that the resulting furiously desperate burst of magical power was felt all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. Only that Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Draco Malfoy were all dead, killed with the Killing Curse. Their wands had been shattered. Nothing could be resolved.

"Such an ugly scene," the Auror muttered to himself. "I'm getting tired of all these ugly scenes. Merlin, show me something beautiful for once."


End file.
